


Wicked Eyes and Less Wicked Hearts

by nightram



Series: Brienne Lavellan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Calculated teasing, Developing Relationship, F/M, Halamshiral, Leliana doing her thing pretty much, alcohol mention, an Inquisitor nervous about the ball
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3905161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor takes every difficulty she meets with the bravest face she can muster. The journey to Halamshiral grates on her nerves, but once in the spotlight she feels the pressure to perform. Thankfully she has her advisors and companions to support her, but it is a lot for one to handle in a single night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leaving Skyhold

The shuddering motion of the carriage reminded Inquisitor Lavellan of the old Aravels her clan would draw along in their travels. The unexpected jerks of a bump in the uneven road jolted her and her advisors every few metres and Josephine almost looked irritated by the fact. She and Leliana sat across from her, the Inquisition's Commander to her right.

Josephine had a small bench pulled out from the carriages interior wall and had some documents balanced on it along with her ink pot and flickering candle. The jittering ride was making it hard for her to write without losing her beautifully looped cursive and left her nervous in anticipation the ink may upturn itself.

As with her diplomat counterpart, Leliana wore her usual attire. Sans her light pauldrons, thick gloves and shined armour, she looked as she always did; withdrawn. Her hood was pulled back and her hands perched on her lap. She stared out the window at the changing scenery as group descended the Frostbacks.

Cullen was buried in reports, one in his hand, a bundle on his lap and a folder of them stuffed underneath his thigh. Under duress, he had forgone his usual armour but did not give up his furred coat and burgundy vest. It was odd seeing him without all that metal, even odder to see the ties up to the collar of his tunic slacked. He grumbles, bringing a hand up to his cheek and scratching at his stubble.

Another jolt of the carriage and his leg bumps against Lavellan's. They share a bashful apology and return to what they were doing.

It had only been a few weeks since she had kissed him on the battlements, the two still shy in their affections, but also deeply invested in their positions in the Inquisition. Lavellan returns to staring out the same carriage window as Leliana

The spymaster cuts into the silence. "I wish to ask something of you, Lavellan." She peels her gaze from the landscape and turns her attention to the Inquisitor. "The Dalish are rather secretive, no? Would it be too much to assume you carry such a similarity?"

"You sound as if you're implying we are agents for some higher organisation," the elf replies with care, suspicious of the Orlesian's motives. "We keep to ourselves but I don't believe "secretive" is quite the correct term." She props her arm up onto the padded rest and presses her cheek against her fist.

"As a First and would-be Keeper you said so yourself once that you have knowledge no hunter or otherwise would know." Leliana exchanges a glance with Cullen as he lifts his curiously head to observe the conversation.

Lavellan nods slowly. "You are correct," she drawls, her Dalish accent waning since leaving her clan in the Free Marches. "Keeper's are the only ones who are permitted to learn to read Elvish, and must only teach their apprentices." She scratches her thigh absentmindedly through the thick fabric of her dull trousers.

"You were sent to the Conclave as a spy, Inquisitor," the former Left Hand states with no venom behind her otherwise accusatory words.

Cullen begins to frown and lowers his reports in his ungloved hand. "Are you honestly trying to imply the Inquisitor is some form of double agent, Leliana?" he asks in exasperation, shocked that even she would suggest a thing considering how highly she regarded the Inquisitor.

The foreign woman giggles into her hand; it is a sweet and gentle thing. "No, not at all Commander," she hums with a shake of her head. "I am merely trying to pin down her traits, you see."

"Leliana, You have known the Inquisitor since this all began," Josephine protests from behind her makeshift desk. She quickly grabs her ink pot and holds it steady as another stone shudders the carriage. "You and Seeker Pentaghast spoke with her long before Cullen or I did."

"What is this about?" Lavellan asks with muted frustration. She didn't understand why she was being interrogated again by the spymaster considering they had built such a good rapport. "You travelled with the Hero of Ferelden, coincidentally a Dalish like myself. I thought you would have an understanding of our behaviours and customs."

"This is about some conflicting information I received, Inquisitor. I had always understood you as the private and professional type." Leliana crossed her ankles and angles her shoulder against the carriage wall, a smirk slowly blooming across her lightly freckled face.

"I suppose you could describe me as such," Lavellan concedes, shuffling her legs out to stretch them a little, mindful not to bump Josephine while she worked. "What is this conflicting information you speak of?"

"Well, you see, Inquisitor, I happened to look out from the Rookery one afternoon." 

There is a devilish gleam in her blue eyes and Lavellan realises the elaborate trap she has just snared herself in. Leliana makes sure she has Cullen's attention while she speaks, Josephine again looking up from her chore with guarded curiosity. "I had thought I was imagining things, but when my agent returned he had confirmed you were indeed quite, hmm how should I say... Intimately close with our handsome Commander?"

"Uh, I, er." From beside her, Cullen quickly cracks under the wide-eyed gaze of the diplomat and carefully aimed simper from Leliana. "Uhm." He nervously turns away, scratching at the back of his neck, his face quickly burning a brilliant scarlet. Leliana giggles.

"I would have expected the both of you to kiss somewhere not quite so _public_ , Your Worship," the spymaster teases, leaning forward slightly to exert more pressure when she turns her calculated gaze on the Inquisitor.

Lavellan is determined not to lose Leliana's game and tries to set her face as best she can without losing too much colour from her tattooed face. Her hands felt clammy and her heart thumped loudly. "Do you not approve?"

"Oh? On the contrary, Inquisitor Lavellan." With a wide grin, Leliana reaches out to give her friend a reassuring tap on the knee. "I am thrilled to know you both have finally done something about your feelings as the world heads towards its supposed demise. It is quite romantic, is it not?"

Cullen clears his throat and tries to find his voice. "I, er, wouldn't quite describe it like that, Sister Leliana," he mumbles. He glances at the woman beside him, looking away quickly and shuffles awkwardly.

"I should write you both a ballad to celebrate," the bard claps her hands together in excitement. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Josephine finally closes her slightly ajar mouth and shares in her friends joy. "Oh, will you both dance together at the ball? I should hope so," her grin is bright and honest. "How could you not tell me of this development?"

"I do not want this announced from the highest balcony in Val Royeux, Josephine!" Trying with all her might to keep a firm grip of her nerves, Lavellan balls her fists. "I," she exchanges a glance will Cullen, " _we_ are taking things slowly."

"Your secret is safe with us," Leliana promises, her coy smile suggesting otherwise, "right, Josie?" She folds her hands back in her lap and tilts her head.

The Antivan pouts, a soft exhale dancing past her lips. She watches Cullen try to avoid her gaze but gathering his forgotten reports and hiding them away. "Yes," she says almost sounding disappointed, "but I must tell my sister when I meet her at Halamshiral" 

The Commander shrinks into his corner of the carriage. Lavellan nudges his calf with her toes and allows herself a quiet chortle in reply to his blushing indignant pout.

"Retreat any further into those cushions and you'll fall out," she teases, her face still leisurely resting against her knuckles.

"Don't pretend you're so calm," Cullen snaps weakly, crossing his arms and stretching his legs across the carriage small foot space. He shuffles his weight and props his head up in the corner, his mantle shrouding his face and golden locks in a thick chocolate mane. "Your ears are bright red."

Lavellan sucks in a breath and is determined not to give away her lingering embarrassment. She chews on her lower lip and narrows her eyes. "At least the only iridescent blush on my face is my vallaslin."

Leliana can't help but laugh. Out of pity she turns her attention back out the window. "Never play Wicked Grace, Commander. Your cheeks will betray you," she advises.

"Thank you," comes the brisk and dishonest reply. Snuggling into his coat, Cullen closes his eyes. "Keep talking all you like," he mutters like a stubborn child, "I'm not listening."

“Leliana, do you think the noble’s will gossip?” Lavellan pulls her knees up under her, now sitting on her feet with her cold fingers stuffed between her thighs to warm. 

“Inquisitor, is it Halamshiral; everyone between the Royal Family to the servants will gossip.” She intended it to be reassuring, but it does not calm Lavellan’s nerves. She was scared of how a Dalish elf would be received in Orlesian court. “We have taught you much of how to play The Game, no? There is no reason to worry.”

Lavellan hugs her arms around her waist and rests her head against the padded carriage interior. “I will be the conversation topic before I even set foot in the vestibule,” she sighs sadly, “just knowing they’ll talk about me gives me nerves.”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine places her quill down carefully. “We will be mingling with the guests in an effort to give you time and space to search for the Venatori assassin,” she strokes back a lock of hair and smiles, “hopefully you will be too busy to think about them.”

“That does not help me feel better,” Lavellan mumbles into the window as she stares out at it. She glances to her side when she hears Cullen moving from his almost nap, she smiles and lets him take her hand and comfort her.

“We will be there to help you,” he assures, pretending that he isn’t being smugly watched by their companions. He holds her agile hand in his and squeezes it.

Lavellan finds it hard to meet his caramel eyes and instead looks at her lap once more. “Thank you,” she whispers.

He would hug her, but it didn’t feel right especially with an audience. Cullen keeps his attention trained on her, unsure of how else to offer encouragement. “I,” he hesitates before letting go, “you can always come speak to me if you need to, my lady.”

She fleetingly cups his cheek with her fingers in a gesture of thanks. “ _Ma serannas_.” She feels a warmth blossoming in her breast when the familiar pink dusting graces his cheeks and he clears his throat. “Thank you,” she repeats. 

Withdrawing himself clumsily, Cullen offers a bashful smile and returns to his previous position in an attempt to escape under the guise of a nap. Nestling back into his corner, he folds his arms back across his wide chest and briefly looks at the unabashed smiles from Leliana and Josephine before closing his eyes and attempting to doze away the rest of today’s trip.

The view out the tempered glass window was now thick forest, the heavy snow fading as the day drew on. It would be just under four days before they reached Halamshiral, however the party needed to arrive ahead of the event to allow adequate preparation. Leliana had agents to plant and packets to collect, Josephine needed to mosey up to the other guests who arrived at the lodgings and revise Cullen’s people skills, or lack thereof.

Leliana had spent hours in Skyhold practicing how she wanted the Inquisitor’s hair to be braided up in her quarters under Josephine’s watchful eye, and was confident in the image it would convey. Lavellan didn’t feel quite so confident in attending her first Grand Game, but knew she had to do it whether she was ready or not. Thankfully she had some grasp of diplomacy in her training as First.

“What is the Duke like?”

“Gaspard?” Josephine has returned to her writings, but once more places her quill atop her makeshift desk. “The Duke, he is a… confident man. He is a Chevalier, and is determined to win the throne.”

“Duke Gaspard has granted the Inquisition his favour,” Leliana contributes, talking into the glass window. “He is using us and will try to coerce you, but he will be courteous.”

Lavellan nods thoughtfully, she commits these tidbits of information to her memory. She scratches the side of her nose and sits back against the mauve cushioning. It was times like this she missed the simplicity of Dalish life, although it didn’t seem as such if you had asked her this time a year ago.

A quiet snore emits from Cullen nestled in his corner.

“I assure you will be popular with the servants, Inquisitor,” the spymaster adds with an afterthought, hoping to instill some more confidence in their leader. “To see one of their own in such a position of power will provide you with their initial trust.”

“You forget the stories they share of my people in your Alienages,” the Inquisitor frowns, her ears dipping with displeasure. “Some consider us cannibalistic savages. They say we steal children and shoot down elves who escape their city walls.”

“Do you believe every tale of man’s misuse of power?” Her brows knit, her expression barely changing but the emotion slipping through her mask. “Those who know better than to believe the lies fed to keep them behind walls, will not be so prejudiced, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan taps her fingernail on the glass in a rhythmic pattern. “I hope you’re right.”

“You’ll see, Inquisitor.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their own different anxieties around the ball; their reception, their presentation, the looming assassination attempt.

Sitting in front of the elegant white vanity had lost its appeal an hour ago. Lavellan had been staring at her reflection for so long her vallaslin no longer had a shape she recognised. She had finished reading the report in her hand for the second time in an attempt to stave off boredom. 

The Inquisitor sat in her decorative wine coloured bathrobe while Leliana pulled back her long hair in practised braids. Her fringe fell casually from the bindings in her hair, and framed her rounded face gracefully, disguising some of her scars. Her gold earrings were polished and shone brightly in the glow of the oil lamp and candelabras around her lodging.

“Make sure not to forget that lock behind her ear,” Josephine reminds and continues to pluck stray hairs from her coat and smooth it repeatedly. She was a bundle of nerves and it was showing.

“It’s _fine_ , Josie,” Leliana sighs, doing away with the last strands hanging loose. “Done. It looks good on you, Inquisitor, shows off your lovely neck.” She pats her on the shoulder. “I will let you apply your cosmetics.”

Lavellan turns her head to inspect the bindings that restrain her hair. A smile cracks her naked lips and she touches it timidly. “Thank you, Leliana,” she breathes in awe. Mindful of the time, she hurries to touch up her face.

Leliana comes to stand by her friend and adjusts the advisor’s collar. “She looks quite handsome, no?”

Allowing herself a smile, Josephine holds still to allow the spymaster to even out the crinkled fabric and shift her sash. “Yes,” she agrees although sounding distracted, “she looks fantastic. But we are running behind schedule.”

“Hush, Josie, we must be fashionably late,” the Orlesian giggles, now tucking stray locks back into the diplomat’s stressed bun. “If you are so worried about time, maybe you should check on the others? Tell them assemble in the parlour.”

Josephine nods once she feels the hands retract from her hair. “That is a good idea. I will make sure that the Iron Bull has confirmed to wearing the dressuit,” she mutters to herself, tapping a manicured nail to her glossed lips. “This is not Skyhold: we do not need him waltzing around shirtless.” Without another word she excuses herself, careful not to slam the ornate door on her way out and scurries down the hall.

Popping her lips, Lavellan makes sure her lipstick has gone on evenly. She pops the lid back on and retrieves a liner for her eyes. Leliana fetches the Inquisitor’s dressuit and hangs it on the filigree screen dividing off the eastern corner beside the door.

“Poor Josie, she worries too much,” the spymaster chuckles, picking at the fine fluff gathered on the rich road coat. “I hope she enjoys herself tonight at least a little. And you too.”

“I’m not sure I really care for your balls,” Lavellan mumbles with her eye wide open while she artfully applies her mascara. “It seems you _shelmen_ like to overcomplicate things and raise stakes where they’re unnecessary.”

“I would not hesitate to assume in the days of old, your people would have had their own petty games at court.” Pulling the gloves stuffed under her knotted belt, Leliana pulls them over her aged hands and flexes her trained fingers. “It is how the powerful entertain themselves.”

The Inquisitor sighs, “yes I suppose you’re right.” Inspecting herself in the mirror, she rotates her head to check for any stray smears of make-up or fallen hair. She finds none and rises, the feet of her seat groaning on the polished wood floor. She begins to untie her robe and makes her way behind the screen, taking her hung suit with her.

“I am told some Chevaliers will attend in their formal armour,” Lavellan speaks with an elevated voice while Leliana stands with her back to the screen. “Why did the Inquisition not invest in such? It would look quite handsome.”

“Josephine determined that armour would make us appear threatening,” the Orlesian states plainly, wandering over to the vacated vanity. “We already face enough challenges with a Herald speculated to hold the Mark of Andraste both not following the Chant nor of human heritage.”

“Hmm, I see your point,” she concedes, stepping out from behind the screen and approaching the full length mirror beside the room’s armoire. She straightens her shoulders and begins adjusting her coat before tying her belt around her waist. Running her hands down her chest, Lavellan presses her gloved palms to her stomach and turns to her side to view the coats fitting around her back.

“You look very regal, Inquisitor,” Leliana simpers with a tilt of her head, her arms drawing across her chest. It was unusual to see her ginger hair and how it moved with her motions; even more unusual to find her almost excited for the ball.

Lavellan retrieves a halla brooch from her messy vanity and pins it to her silken sash and nestles it beside the Inquisition’s sigil already pinned on. “I feel very,” she pauses to think of the word she wants. “Professional.”

There is a brisk knock at her door and Lavellan almost jumps. Leliana takes a step back and calls for whoever to enter. 

The door carefully swings open and Cassandra enters in her own matching coat. On her sash rests two pins, one with the Inquisition’s sigil the other the Seeker’s of Truth. “Inquisitor,” she paces to stand beside the Left Hand with the Commander in tow, “Lady Montilyet wishes to know how much longer you’ll be.”

“Cassandra, you have polished up so nicely,” Leliana greets with narrow eyes. “Did you apply a gloss to your lips? They look positively radiant.” The Seeker frowns and looks away, embarrassed that her indulgence was noticed. 

“Commander Cullen, you’ve paid extra attention to your hair this evening, no?” Leliana’s arms stay folded and she rocks to the side on the balls of her feet. Her energy is a stark contrast to her subdued ego in Skyhold. Cullen brings a gloved hand to his hair and tests for any stray locks.

“I’m ready,” the Inquisitor declares, spinning on the heels of her fine boots. She locks eyes with Cullen and shares a warm but thin grin which he returns. “Let us put Josephine out of her misery.”

The Commander dutifully holds the door open, allowing the women to exit into the hall. Leliana leads the small procession with Cassandra behind her, her boots clicking the floor with her march. The wall scones shine and jump with the shift of air and illuminate the way to the levels’ parlour.

“Your, uh, your hair looks lovely,” Cullen compliments once he meets the Inquisitor’s pace down the long hall. He stoops a little to catch her eyes which dance across his face, quickly drinking in his preened profile.

“You look quite lovely yourself,” Lavellan responds sweetly, her hand unexpectedly brushing against his as they walk. She allows herself to observe how well uniform compliments his angular shoulders and thin waist. Cullen brings his up to scratch a finger against the back of his neck and adjust his collar.

Their moment doesn’t last long, the parlour doorway now right before them. The group enters to find Josephine primping herself and fiddling with her sash for the upteenth time this evening. Varric places a kind hand on her forearm and shares his wheezing laugh.

“Ruffles, please, you’re almost making _me_ nervous with all your fidgeting,” the dwarf says with a pat of his gloved hand. 

The Iron Bull emits a low whistle when the group enters and plants his big hands on his waist. “Red, looking _good_ ,” he rumbles, a smirk drawing across his grey face. His coat struggles to accommodate his broad chest and even broader shoulders, some of the definition visible in it’s stretch. 

Leliana snorts elegantly with a raised brow and waves him off, her attention placed on Josephine. She approaches the Antivan and the two immediately begin discussing travel preparations.

In the lull of conversation, Cullen clears his throat to address the Inquisitor and her companions. “There will be men smuggling in your arms this evening.” He flexes his hand, reaching for the blade he so often grasps. “They should be placed in the servant’s quarters, but either Leliana or I will alert you in case that changes.”

“I’d rather simply wear my armour for the evening’s entirety,” Cassandra scowls, tugging up a glove.

Cullen bows his head with a chuckles. “You and I both.”

“See, _she_ has the right idea,” Bull exclaims gesturing to the woman. “These uniforms are too restrictive in the few ways I don’t enjoy it.” Cassandra nods to him approvingly, but her expression falling when she realises the underlying context of his comment and frowns.

“Ugh,” she spits. The qunari laughs.

“As long as my Bianca isn’t damaged, we should be fine,” Varric says jokingly although an unspoken threat lingers under his playful visage. “How long will we be stuck there, anyway?”

“More importantly,” the Iron Bull interjects, “how much of the wine are we allowed?”

“There will be plenty of time to thoroughly intoxicate yourselves _after_ we deal with the assassin,” the Inquisitor raises her brow and places her hands on her hips, their fullness accentuated by her uniform’s flattering cut.

“I’m going to need some liquor to tolerate the Seeker’s whining throughout the ball, Inquisitor.” Varric glances at her pointedly and ignores her snarl. 

The Commander exchanges glances with the Inquisitor. “Make sure you can at least walk straight,” the elf sighs and pinches her brow. “Can we leave already?” she moans, “I’d like this night to be over with.”

“Yes, please, let’s,” Josephine piques, “the drivers are ready. I do not wish to be later than we already are.”


End file.
